AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

you in after I meet the journalist.”

She eyed the cafe-tabac lace-curtained door again. He was late. He had to show. And if he didn’t come? She pushed the thought away. If she’d read him right, he wanted to make his name, and a scoop like this would do it.

Something still bothered her.

“We have to find out what those marks I copied from under Stella’s arm mean.”

Nelie must have been desperate; she hadn’t taken the time to diaper Stella but she had scribbled letters and numbers on her skin. Yet she must have realized that the marks would rub off soon, or be washed off.

“What’s the big secret, Aimee?”

“No big secret, Rene,” she said. “Right now, those ink marks—the letters and numbers that were written on Stella—seem to be the key.”

“Deciphering an alphanumeric strand is a big headache.”

It could take an hour. Or twelve. Or forever.

She thought hard. “Say Vavin discovered proof that Alstrom had falsified their reports and it’s hidden in this equation. What if he told this to Nelie . . .”

“And it got him killed?” Rene finished for her. “We went through this last night. Big stretch.”

Stella began to cry. Aimee put the baby over her shoulder and patted her back.

“How’s Stella?” Rene asked in a gruff tone that didn’t hide his concern.

“The doctor examined her; she’s fine,” she told him.

A dark-haired man entered the cafe, working his way past those in line buying telephone cards, and waved at her. Finally.

“The L’Express journalist’s here,” Aimee said, waving back. “I’ll get his fax number. When you find the reports, you can fax them, and if I play it right, he’ll nail them in print.”

“Play it right, Aimee,” Rene said and hung up.

Daniel Ristat, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, edged through the line at the counter looking every bit the handsome Left Bank journalist and knowing it. More than one woman glanced up from her magazine and gave him the eye.

“Je m’excuse,” he said, setting his laptop on the table in front of Aimee. His snobbism evaporated when he saw Stella. He ground his cigarette out and waved the smoke away. “The baby, smoke . . . I’m sorry. She’s a beauty!”

He sat down, a smile in his eyes.

“What’s her name?”

“Stella, meet Daniel Ristat.”

He took Stella’s fingers in his big ones and gazed at her. Stella wrinkled her nose, curled her finger around his, and gave a halfhearted cry. Amazed, Aimee saw that Daniel Ristat’s face had changed. The trendy journalist was putty in her small hands. This little ravissante was a natural coquette, born to it.

“Martine never mentioned your child. I had no idea,” he said. Amid the noise of conversations, the tele above the counter with horse races blaring, the clatter of cups stacked on the espresso machine, he only had eyes for Stella. “You’re so lucky.”

Aimee winced.

“My wife and I can’t have children. We’re trying to adopt but the waiting list is two years long. Or longer.” He shrugged. “Famille d’accueil recommends we become foster parents to gain priority.”

Despite his male-model looks and air, something about him told her he’d make a wonderful papa.

Should she tell him the truth to gain his sympathy? But the truth wasn’t hers to tell.

“I’m just taking care of her.”

“Vraiment?” He studied her. “You seem so natural, the way you hold her. Like her mother. I don’t know that much about babies . . .”

She blinked. “Shall we get to work?”

For a moment he directed a laserlike stare at her that went right to the bone. Her heart raced. Was it so obvious she was head over stilettos with this thing that weighed no more than three kilos?

“Here are some of my notes,” he said, businesslike, pulling out a folder. “Background on Alstrom’s corporate structure, the North Sea territorial water disputes, environmental impact statement, and some very subdued eco groups’ responses, which I found surprising.”

She skimmed the several pages of notes. Went back and reread the first page. “Here you note Alstrom’s funding its drilling project with a Ministry loan?”

Daniel Ristat nodded.

“Would you say they’re in financial trouble?”

“Their last drill didn’t recoup their investment, and then unsafe platform construction resulted in the deaths of several workers, for which they were liable. Not to mention the bad press engendered by ecomilitants’ campaigns.”

She put Stella over her shoulder again, patted her back, and was rewarded by a loud resounding burp. She hoped no spit-up had been deposited on Martine’s black velvet jacket.

“In essence, the proposed agreement with the Ministry means they scratch each other’s backs,” he said. “The Ministry gains new revenue sources, higher employment, increased industrial production: it all looks good on their reports. And Alstrom snags a secure base in the North Sea from which to expand. All funded by the government. Everyone wins.”

Except the marine life and the coasts of several countries, she thought.

“Not according to your other notes here on environmental impact studies,” she said.

He flashed a smile at the waiter, who’d appeared with a tray in one hand, rubbing his hand on a white apron with the other.

“Une noisette, s’il vous plait,” he said to the waiter.

So trendy journalists drank macchiatos now.

“My information comes from a reliable source,” he said.

“Deep inside. He must remain unnamed. I can’t use this information or it will point to him as the Ministry leak. He told me Alstrom’s last spill rendered parts of the North and Baltic seas toxic to fish. And then there’s Alstrom’s deliberate misinformation campaign: deny, dupe, and delay. Dupe the public into thinking it’s an environmentally and socially responsible corporation. Have you heard yet of ‘dead zones?’”

She shook her head.

“Algae die from pollutants, and in the process of decomposition they consume oxygen. The depletion of oxygen leaves an oxygenless dead zone on the ocean floor, the effect of which spirals up through the chain of marine life.”

She thought of what Krzysztof had told her. “I was informed that the supposedly abandoned North Sea oil-rig platforms were being used for dump sites. This could be corroboration.”

“But where’s the direct proof?” Daniel said. “Everyone in power wants this agreement to go through. You know it’s almost a done deal. So even though I’d like to, I can’t help you.”

Desperation surged through her. “I’m sure there are more reports that were suppressed. MondeFocus’s protest was sabotaged. Will you expose Alstrom if I get you proof? If I get you minutes of their corporate meetings, will you blow it wide open?”

His eyebrow raised. “Like you blew a hole in the Seine?”

“Moi?”

Why didn’t anyone blame Gabriel Leclerc?

“I read the papers.” He grinned, opening his laptop. “Martine filled me in, too. I was counting on a dramatic interview at your hospital bedside. Instead I have a tete-a-tete with two lovely ladies. Charmante.”

“I need your help,” she said. “The agreement’s about to be signed.”

He shook his head.

“Like I said, I need evidence: reports, meeting notes,” he said. “No one takes shots at an oil company or the